


That's the Ticket

by Wrenlet



Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: Community: 60_minute_fics, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-19
Updated: 2006-12-19
Packaged: 2018-10-26 00:00:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10775220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrenlet/pseuds/Wrenlet
Summary: So, they leave the bar and then...





	That's the Ticket

**Author's Note:**

> Originally begun on [](http://60-minute-fics.livejournal.com/profile)[60_minute_fics](http://60-minute-fics.livejournal.com/) for the [Cops, Cops and More Cops trigger](http://community.livejournal.com/60_minute_fics/45860.html). Sequel to [Touch of Leather](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10773699), my previous Dean/Tristan smutfest. Thanks to [](http://tsuki-no-bara.livejournal.com/profile)[tsuki_no_bara](http://tsuki-no-bara.livejournal.com/) for audiencing and porn-beta-via-stick-figures. :D

The speeding ticket is a definite buzzkill. Dean hands over his license and registration, and tries not to glare too obviously at the cop because God knows all he needs right now is to cool his heels overnight in the drunk tank. Tristan stares straight out the windshield, silently fingering the oh-shit handle while the trooper writes up Dean's ticket.  
  
Fuck.  
  
By the time the black-and-white pulls around him and back onto the road, everything Dean was so certain of a half-hour ago is just gone, poof. He grips the steering wheel, rubbing his palms on the plastic, and Tristan still hasn't said a word.  
  
Fucking fuck.  
  
"I can take you back."  
  
That gets a reaction, Tristan's head whips around and Dean won't meet his gaze but he can feel it like it's heating up the side of his face.  
  
"The hell?"  
  
Dean just waits. He knows Tristan is about to say yeah, and then Dean will drive him back to the bar and this'll just be-- it will be over and all he'll have to show for it is a hundred dollar fine and maybe one of the best orgasms of his life. So he's understandably surprised when Tristan leans over and punches him on the shoulder, hard.  
  
"You asshole. No fucking way."  
  
Dean blows his bangs up out of his eyes. "Listen, you don't-- nevermind, y'know? If your ride's gone or whatever, I can drop you somewhere. No big deal."  
  
Tristan punches him again, even harder this time, but it's the growl that makes Dean finally look at him. "No, you son of a bitch, you're not 'dropping' me anywhere."  
  
Why does he have to be an ass about this? "I'm giving you an out, man!"  
  
"I don't fucking want it!" Tristan's belt is off, he must've unsnapped it when Dean pulled over and just like that he leans across the console into Dean's space, grips Dean's crotch and squeezes. "And neither do you, so don't fucking lie to me."  
  
His dick throbs, and everything that had stopped making sense is suddenly crystal clear again. "What... the hell do you want, then?"  
  
"I want you to take me--" Tristan's half in his lap by now, hissing into his ear. "--to your crappy little apartment--" He rubs the heel of his palm down Dean's cock, so hard it's half-pain. "--and your crappy little bed, and fuck me until I can't see straight."  
  
Dean's cock is so on board with this idea it's not even funny. Most of the rest of him is thanking God the cop is long gone, but one little part... "Then what?"  
  
Tristan pants against Dean's cheek, and his grip is starting to feel less punishing and more ohfuckyeah. When he replies, it's in a whisper. "And then do it again."  
  
It's not an answer, or not one to whatever question Dean thought he was asking, but he'll go with it. "Fine. But get your hand off my dick, or I'm fucking you in the car."  
  
Tristan squeezes him again, actually acts like he's thinking about it before pulling away and sitting back in the passenger seat. "Too many cops." Dean's trying to remember how to breathe when Tristan fastens his seatbelt and mutters, "Not like you'd fit, you lanky bastard."  
  
Dean maybe throws the car into gear a little harder than necessary, maybe stomps down until the tires squeal on the shoulder, maybe likes it when Tristan grabs the dash and shoots him a startled look. He knows Tristan won't ask, and that's fine because he's not in a mood to explain anyway.  
  
Tristan's quiet until they pull in behind Dean's building, by the back stairs. "Crappier than I thought."  
  
"Shut up, Tristan." It's reflex, really, Tristan can't get a rise out of him telling him what he already knows.  
  
Tristan smirks, naturally, follows him up the stairs and stands way closer than necessary while Dean fumbles with his keys. He does keep his hands to himself, at least until Dean gets the door open and then it's all-bets-off, shoving and pulling and sticking his hand down the back of Dean's jeans. It's not that Dean doesn't appreciate the enthusiasm, but he thinks braining himself on the phone stand would be a piss-poor end to the evening.  
  
"Christ, take it easy, would you?" Dean kicks the door shut and starts to peel one of Tristan's arms off, missing the alley with its convenient, furniture-free, leanable walls when they sway alarmingly. He doesn't think Tristan's still drunk, he just doesn't seem to care if they topple over in the floor. "What's the matter with you?"  
  
"Just moving things along."  
  
"So move it to the bed before you break both our necks." He gets his hand on Tristan's chest and pushes, forcing him off. Tristan tilts his head and smirks again.  
  
"What, you don't want to do it on the floor?"  
  
"You want me to knock you down?" He steps up into Tristan's space, crowding him. "'Cause I could do that."  
  
Tristan swallows and takes a step back, and that right there is never going to not make Dean want to grin. "Bed's fine."  
  
"That way." He jerks his head toward the bedroom door, like there's any chance Tristan could miss it. Hell, the door and the wall it's in aren't much more than a waste of space and Dean's thought more than once about knocking them out. Probably would if he wasn't renting. And where the hell is his head, that he's standing in the middle of his living room thinking about renovations and not Tristan stripping off... wow. "Leave the pants."  
  
Tristan shoots him a look that could melt paint. "Little hard to fuck with them on, don't you think?"  
  
"Not planning to." Dean shakes his head, hoping whatever's the matter with him stops because really there is no excuse for not knowing just when Tristan lost his shirt. He's got his arms crossed over his chest, standing at the foot of Dean's bed and it's partly a pose and probably partly because Dean lets the place stay a little on the cold side.  
  
Or he's nervous, but somehow Dean doubts that's the case.  
  
Dean toes his shoes off, tosses his jacket towards a chair on his way to the bedroom, and it maybe lands short of the mark but he's not caring right now because Tristan, impatient fucker, is toying with the button of his pants.  
  
"Thought that might get you moving."  
  
Dean's shirt hits the wall and then he's right there, batting Tristan's hand away from his fly. "I said stop it."  
  
"I don't listen so well."  
  
"No sh--"  
  
Tristan shuts him up with his tongue, and Dean thinks he should maybe remember that for later. He's threaded his fingers through Dean's belt loops, molding his body to Dean's and fuck, he's not cold at all. Dean grips the back of Tristan's neck, tilts his head to kiss him deeper, and Tristan makes a noise in his throat like it hurts and presses even closer.  
  
Tristan starts working at Dean's belt and Dean lets him, focuses instead on kissing that sound out of him again. He doesn't get it exactly but there's a whole new array of moans when he goes for Tristan's neck, an encouraging hiss when he skims his hands up Tristan's chest and thumbs a nipple. He's focussed to the point it barely registers when Tristan gets his jeans open, doesn't stop him when Tristan shoves them down over his hips, and he really only notices he's naked when Tristan laughs in his ear like he's got something over Dean now, like suddenly he's the one in control.  
  
But Dean's just getting started. Tristan's grip on his hips slackens when Dean bites his neck, just hard enough not to bruise, and that's all Dean needs. He spins Tristan to face the bed and pushes, collides with Tristan's back when he tries to catch his balance and shoves him down onto his hands and knees.  
  
"The hell are you-- God."  
  
Funny what a hand down a guy's pants will do to his composure. Dean doesn't even jack him, not yet, just wraps his hand around Tristan's dick and squeezes while he grinds against his ass.  
  
"When... fuck, did you get a thing for leather?"  
  
"Today."  
  
Another squeeze, bit of a twist and Tristan's incoherent, pushing back on Dean's cock like there's nothing between them, like they're already fucking. Dean could probably come just like this but he doesn't want to. He wants into Tristan and he wants it yesterday.  
  
"Move up."  
  
Tristan whines and arches his back again, and Dean isn't sure if he didn't hear or is just ignoring him. Either way, he can work with this. He shoves a knee against the back of Tristan's thigh, forcing him forward, one and then the other and again until he's walked him halfway up the bed, and he can't reach without letting go of Tristan but he thinks Tristan can. Dean just has to get his attention.  
  
He slides his hand further into the fly of Tristan's pants; it's a tight fit and these have got to come off eventually, probably really damned soon, but he's got room enough. He circles the base of Tristan's cock and squeezes, and Tristan's head flies up so fast Dean nearly takes it in the face.  
  
"Bastard! The hell?"  
  
"Second drawer."  
  
"What-- screw you, I can't reach that."  
  
Dean strokes his thumb up the underside of Tristan's dick. "Yeah, you can. Unless you changed your mind about getting fucked tonight?"  
  
Tristan mutters something under his breath, most likely obscene, and reaches for the drawer. He leans even further forward to do it and the stretch of it ripples across his shoulder and down the muscles of his back and that, wow, is so unexpectedly hot Dean finds himself licking up the line of Tristan's spine without even really thinking about it.  
  
Tristan gasps and clutches at the edge of the nightstand. The lamp rattles and something slides off the back edge, scraping down between the table and the wall.  
  
"Drawer, Tristan, c'mon."  
  
Dean's pressed completely against Tristan's back now, so close he can feel the hitch in his chest as he drags his fingers down the handles, yanks the drawer so hard it nearly comes out. He fumbles for the bottle, snags a string of condoms and slings his arm back to toss them on the bed, smacking Dean in the side in the process and Dean would laugh if he didn't think Tristan might try to kill him for it.  
  
"There, God, would you fucking take my pants off already?"  
  
"Since you ask so nicely." It's hard to give up, that drag and tug of leather against his cock, and when he yanks Tristan's pants down over his ass, when they're caught in the crook of his knees and binding his thighs together, Dean almost leaves them just like that. But more than he likes the leather, or even the restraint, he wants Tristan spread out and fucked stupid and for that? The pants have got to go.  
  
Tristan bitches the whole time Dean's tugging the pants down off his legs, all "should've done" and "hurry up" and "dammit, that's my foot," and Dean wishes he could be in two places long enough to shut him up with something, tongue, dick, whatever works. A slick finger pressing into his ass makes Tristan trail off on a low moan and that's beyond good enough, Dean has to squeeze his eyes shut and think of something other than how hard he is right now or, well, he'll never hear the end of it.  
  
The second finger draws out a hiss, and Dean rests his forehead between Tristan's shoulder blades and feels him arch and rock back. He's fucking tight, hot like nothing else, and Dean's still working him open when he feels Tristan twist around, opens his eyes to find Tristan glaring back over his shoulder.  
  
"You don't have to be careful."  
  
Something in his tone just... well, he's always gotten under Dean's skin, hasn't he? Even when it's clearly meant to piss him off it's hard not to rise to that bait, but damned if he'll play the game the way Tristan wants. Dean straightens up, plants his free hand in the middle of Tristan's back and shoves 'till he's down on his elbows, hips canted up.  
  
"You're ready when I say, Tristan. Not before." It doesn't come out the way it did in his head, his voice is-- it doesn't matter, Tristan groans way down in his chest and tightens on Dean's hand.  
  
"You like that?" Dean sounds all wrecked, is the thing, and they're not even fucking yet.  
  
Tristan doesn't sound like anything. He drops his head down between his shoulders, practically to the bed, and just pants while Dean works another finger into him. Dean thinks... yeah, he's ready and Dean is beyond ready. Tristan jerks and hisses when he pulls his fingers free, Dean gets the condom on in record time and takes hold of Tristan's hips and Tristan just. He stops, stops moving completely and maybe doesn't even breathe until after Dean pushes in past that first resistance.  
  
"God."  
  
"Yeah." Dean barely hears him over the hammer of his own pulse, like Tristan's talking into the pillows instead of to him. But then he shifts, turns his head and Dean can hear him better but it's this soft murmur, like that's all he can get out. "Come on."  
  
Dean wants to-- God, he wants to just fuck his way in but he won't hurt Tristan if he can help it and Tristan, for once, isn't trying to make him. Another inch and Tristan breathes deep, a slow stretch through his spine as he arches to meet Dean's hips. Dean is burning up, sweating like crazy though he doesn't realize it until he's all the way in, until he leans over Tristan's back and it drips off the ends of his hair, falling onto Tristan's skin.  
  
"Could you... Dean, just move. Anything." And it isn't goading, he's asking and Dean wonders, when was the last time Tristan asked for what he wanted?  
  
Dean rolls his hips, rocking in and out in tight little circles and fuck, it's so good it almost hurts but he's craving something a little, well, else. Tristan murmurs when he stops though he doesn't catch much of it beyond a "what" and a "no," and when Dean lets himself fall all the way forward, braced over Tristan's body on one arm, Tristan tenses up with a startled gasp.  
  
"What are you doing?" Dean can't get enough of Tristan like this, quiet and pliable. He leans in even more, stretching to get to Tristan's ear and Tristan slides his knees further apart.  
  
"I'm fucking you."  
  
He makes the next thrust long and slow, and Dean can feel Tristan relaxing into it, like he's finally decided to just let Dean drive. It's heady, the way every arch of Tristan's back slides along Dean's chest, the way he can spread his hand flat on Tristan's belly, lift with him when Dean pinches a nipple, fit his chin to the crook of Tristan's shoulder and count his breaths as they fuck.  
  
Tristan pulls and twists at the quilted bedspread, like he wants leverage and doesn't know how to get it. Dean wraps his arm across Tristan's chest and pulls him up, flush with Dean's body and slick with sweat, lets him use that to shove himself back on Dean's cock. It works almost too well, but Dean locks his other elbow and digs his knees against the mattress, and keeps them both upright by sheer will.  
  
"Sorry, sorry."  
  
"Don't." They're locked together at the torso, Dean's hand tight on Tristan's shoulder, and he doesn't have the breath to tell him it's okay, that in fact it's fucking fantastic.  
  
It's definitely working for Tristan; he snaps his hips back, pushing the pace and when Dean speeds up to match Tristan makes this noise, like, God he doesn't even know. But then, fuck, he grabs onto Dean's arm with one hand and grabs his dick with the other, and if Dean could say anything right now it'd be, 'Hey, I can keep us from crashing over but I can't hold you up,' except he does, because he can't just let Tristan fall.  
  
Tristan jacks his cock, still pushing back into Dean's every thrust and whining up high in his throat, and then he turns his face into Dean's cheek and comes like a fucking heart attack.  
  
And it's so-- God. Dean wants to come so bad he can taste it, wants to ride out every spasm of Tristan's climax and just lose it, but Tristan's nails are digging into his forearm and he's too aware of the pull in his shoulders and the effort of keeping them upright, and he can't let himself go.  
  
"Fuck, fuck, I've gotta--" He can hear the whine in his voice but he doesn't care, his balls are aching and drawing up tight and he needs.  
  
"Yeah," Tristan stops clutching his arm and tugs at it instead, pulls Dean's hand off his shoulder and catches himself on the bed. "Yeah, come on." And again, shoving at Dean's side with his elbow like he's pushing him off. "Do it, come on and fuck--"  
  
Dean doesn't have to be told again; he unwinds his arm from around Tristan's chest, grabs his hips and slams into him. Tristan drops forward onto his arms and rocks back into it, letting Dean pull and grip and pound into his ass, and when Dean finally comes -- squeezing so hard it's got to hurt, there'll be bruises, he knows it -- Tristan is still chanting, "Yeah, yeah."  
  
"God." He can't even move yet, just flexes his hands on Tristan's hips and waits for the room to stop spinning. "That was... God."  
  
"Was it your best ever?" That's got to be some kind of talent, moaning to bitchy in oh-point-six seconds. But it lacks bite, and Tristan only manages to half-muffle the noise he makes when Dean slips out of him.  
  
Dean feels sluggish, stupid like maybe he just shot half his brain out of his dick. He fumbles the condom off, ties it and tosses it vaguely towards the trash can, and what he'd like more than anything is to keel over on the bed and sleep for a week. Maybe two. Can't yet, though.  
  
"Should get you home--"  
  
"Morning's fine." Tristan makes a face at the wet spot, works the quilt out from under them and shoves it onto the floor.  
  
"Oh... -kay, sure." Dean can't say that he minds, either the quilt he doesn't like and that wasn't ever even his, or Tristan, uhm. Staying over. It's a little weird, sure, he wouldn't have guessed Tristan would. Well. Want to. Something tells him not to bring it up, though, and if maybe he wakes up at dark-o-clock in the morning and Tristan is snug up against his side -- not facing him, but still -- he gets the feeling he shouldn't mention that, either.


End file.
